


Trade Show

by therev



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therev/pseuds/therev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Dean meets a guy at a trade show. Your basic tale of love and promotional items.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trade Show

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mrkinch and Mercy for looking this over for me.

There's a girl across the aisle and one booth down, standing in front of a display that reads "Crossroad Industries: Your Complete Paper Solution." She doesn't look like she works for a paper company, doesn't dress like she hawks eighty pound gloss, and she's way too eager to smile, particularly in Dean's direction but he guesses she thinks he's checking her out rather than trying to see past her unmissable bosom so he can't blame her.

The thing he keeps trying to see in spite of her is the dark haired guy at the high-top in the same booth, looking bored and looking down at his phone. At least that's what he seems to be doing when Dean has the time to stop and look. It's a busy show and Dean can barely catch a breath between prospective customers and dealers and vendors and brokers and randoms that stop to talk, especially with Sam M.I.A. for the morning. And yet Mr. Paper Solution might actually be playing Angry Birds as far as Dean can tell, and looks fairly irritated the one time Dean sees the girl bring him someone to talk to. He'd usually call it poor business and a bad attitude but Dean knows a numbers man when he sees one.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to undress that booth bunny with your eyes," Sam says when he finally reappears, with five-dollar hot dogs in apology for whatever made him so late so Dean can't complain too much. "Or, you know, finishing undressing her since she's already halfway there."

"You ever heard of Crossroad Industries?" Dean asks around a mouthful of a Nathan's with mustard and relish but Sam's talking to a twitchy guy in a suit and cowboy boots who wants to talk conveying systems integration so the reply is a few minutes coming.

"They used to be CrowleyCo. but there was a merger or something. They've been around forever, just rebranding, I guess." There's a moment where Sam seems to be not-so-stealthily scoping out the booth in question and the T&A-for-hire conveniently, obliviously, steps out of the way, clearing their line of sight to Dark and Brooding who is currently peering disdainfully into the crowd. Sam makes a sound that sounds kind of knowing and amused and then disappears with a "be right back."

"Sam," Dean hisses, an attempt to stop him, but there's a group of men in sweatervests inspecting their brochures and one is asking something in what Dean thinks is Italian while someone else repeats it to Dean in slow english and his hot dog (and Sam) will have to wait.

"His name's Castiel and he wasn't wearing a ring but I think he's kind of a dick so maybe don't bother. Oh and here's Tawny Kitaen's phone number," Sam says when he appears back at their booth a few minutes later and slips a business card into Dean's hand. The front of the card says 'Castiel J. Novak, CFO' in simple type but the back, handwritten, reads 'Staci', followed by a series of numbers.

"I didn't want her number," Dean says.

"She asked me to give it to you."

"I didn't ask you to talk to the guy either."

Sam purses his lips, rolls his eyes without actually rolling them. Dean calls it his bitchface. "Really? That brooding, rumpled look. Tall dark and cranky is totally your type. Anyway, I didn't really talk to him. I left a card and told him to stop by but he mostly just stared at me."

"And?" Dean asks, all pretense aside.

"And they're blue," Sam says with a smirk so smug he doesn't even look at Dean as he delivers it.

The crowd thins as the day wears and Dean takes a stroll across the floor a half hour before closing, picks up some ball caps from an industrial fan company, cons a t-shirt from a lift manufacturer along with a stack of post-it notes affixed to a miniature wooden pallet, and throws them into a bag that reads MOHAWK along with some pens from a logistics company because they've given away all of their own, including the ones they need to write with. He strolls past Crossroad as casually as possible but Castiel isn't there and the girl is yawning so hard she doesn't even notice him.

Back at the booth, Sam's talking to a smartly dressed man with an english accent and his exhibitor badge reads "CROSSROAD IND." and "Damon Crowley." Dean shakes his hand when Sam introduces him.

"Sam was just telling me how your sorting system could easily, well, sort me out, but I must admit we don't yet have the volume for it." There's an underlying hiss to Crowley's voice.

"Yet," Dean repeats.

"Precisely. We plan to expand. That's why I forced my money man along. Castiel?" Crowley speaks to the air over Dean's shoulder which seems to suddenly be occupied by Dark and Brooding (and not quite as tall as Dean thought). Dean turns. They are definitely blue.

"That's our competitor," Castiel says to Dean and the voice is so low and grave and accusing that it takes Dean a moment to realize that Castiel is pointing at the bag slung over Dean's shoulder.

"Cas is not a fan of tradeshows," Crowley says, amused, and Castiel looks at him with that same accusation and distaste. "...or customers or vendors or probably even kittens. Don't take it personally."

"You see?" Sam says later during the walk back to the hotel. "Dick."  
_________

In the morning, Dean catches the elevator at the hotel just before the door closes and he sees a blue-and-white badge before he sees a face so the words "Another day, another show" are already out of his mouth before Castiel glares at him in the stainless steel of the elevator doors.

"Good morning," Castiel says.

"Couldn't be better," Dean says automatically.

"It could."

"Yeah, I guess it could. Should improve after a cup of coffee and a couple of complimentary muffins. 'Course I like it when they let you make your own waffles. Shame this place doesn't do that, though," Dean says, then coughs.

Castiel nods but it's maybe not a nod, then shifts his weight, then presses the button for the ground floor even though it's already lit and the elevator is already moving.

"You're right," Dean says to Sam when they're crossing the street in a crowd of like-dressed business persons moving through walk-don't-walk signs like cattle with rolling luggage and wrapped in coats against the cool morning air. "Total dick."  
_______

The second day is a little slower but steady and Dean has given up trying to watch Castiel (now "The Dick") while Sam, on the other hand, does nothing but watch the Crossroad booth since yesterday's Tawny Kitaen has been replaced by a perky brunette who looks like more trouble than she might be worth.

"She'll eat you alive," Dean warns. "'Course that might be what you're going for."

"I don't know," Sam says, looking but trying to not-look, "I think she's eyeballing the magician."

The Magician is a kind of nerdy, almost gawky, maybe even-taller-than-Sam guy at the opposite end of the aisle who nevertheless keeps a crowd and the particular attention of a blonde in heels who laughs at everything he says and seems especially impressed when he shuffles cards over his knee while standing.

"Dude, that's hard to beat."

"Apparently. What's magic got to do with robotics anyway?" Sam asks and Dean doesn't have to look at him to hear the bitchface in his voice.

"No idea. Why don't you go ask him on your way to concession to pick me up a twenty-dollar lemonade and some gummy bears. Maybe he'll teach you a card trick."

"Maybe bite me, Dean."

Sam takes off anyway, and Dean's laughing and watching him go so he's once again caught off guard by a voice from over his shoulder.

"You're very attractive," it says.

"Sorry?" Dean asks, because that's pretty far from anything he might have expected to accompany such a glare.

Castiel looks thoughtful, like he's sizing Dean up, less for a fight than to, say, judge his worth by the pound.

"I thought you were a face-for-hire, like our... young lady. Because you're very attractive." He once again says this last part as matter-of-factly as he might say that a square has four sides or that water is wet and it hardly sounds like a compliment. "But I've just learned from the exhibitor guide that you're part-owner."

"Uh," Dean gets the impression that this last statement requires a response. He should know the answer to this one but he's still marveling at the fact that anyone actually reads exhibitor guides. "Uh, yeah. Sam and I. It used to be our dad's. Now it's ours. The face just sort of happened."

Castiel nods very seriously, as if Dean's just explained the universe to his satisfaction. "I was probably very rude to you. I don't often make good first impressions. I'm Castiel."

Dean looks down at the hand Castiel offers for probably a beat too long before shaking it. "Dean," he says.

"I know."

"Well I knew you--I mean yours... too. So. You sell paper?"

"No."

"Okay."

"I'm an accountant. Crowley sells paper. I don't think many people would buy paper from me. Or anything else for that matter. People would buy almost anything from Crowley, or sell, up to and including their soul. He's very charismatic."

"He seems like a good guy. Where's he off to anyway?" Dean doesn't say that he'd buy rather a lot off of Castiel and instead peers down the aisle at the Crossroad booth, empty but for the brunette who is definitely looking in the direction of the magician now.

"Sleeping in. He spent the night... sealing a deal."

There's more disapproval in Castiel's voice than Dean's ever heard anyone manage, including his dad circa him at age seven and something about a broken window.

"I take it that's a euphemism."

"You would not be wrong."

"That why you've got a new girl today?"

"Keenly observed."

"Good looking and clever to boot."

"She seems more intelligent than the last, at least."

"I meant..." Dean trails off because that might be a grin Castiel's face is wearing, and it might have been an attempt at humor but he's not sure and Castiel is watching something in a vaguely magician-ward direction too.

"Is your brother also an amateur prestidigitator?"

"What?"

Castiel doesn't have to answer because there's Sam with the magician's cards, fumbling to either teach or learn a trick, Dean can't really tell, and the blonde is still laughing but more at than with.

"No, just a professional ass. Excuse me."

By the time Dean rescues Sam from his own ridiculousness, Castiel is nowhere to be found and Sam wonders why he cares anyway, the guy's a dick and so is the magician and this show blows. They should pack up tonight. Four days is too long for a show anyway and they're all out of giveaway pens! Sam's so busy ranting he doesn't notice the brunette until Dean's already shaking her hand.

"We have pens at our booth," she says, then shakes Sam's hand and Sam gapes a bit as she says, "but I guess that defeats the purpose, huh?. Anyway. I'm Ruby."  
_________

"Man, really? This thing tonight is going to blow if I'm on my own."

"So don't go, Dean."

"But free beer, Sammy."

"Free beer at an aquarium. You hate fish."

"I do not hate fish."

"Name one fish you like."

"Jaws."

"That's not a fish, that's a movie."

"Which I have seen a hundred times."

"Then go."

"Alone?"

"You never have trouble finding someone to talk to. Or take back to your room."

"Yeah, but that's 'cause I've usually got my wingman. But my wingman has a date with a walking advertisement."

"Don't be jealous."

"Don't be a bitch."

"Why don't you ask Castiel?"

"I don't know. That guy confuses me."

"You mean whether or not he swings your way?"

"Well that, but more general, really. Like which-way-is-up kind of confused."

"Physics, huh? Chairs nailed to the ceiling?"

"Yeah, he's a regular mystery spot."

"So make it all business. He's pretty... business-y. At least try to get to know him--"

"Don't say 'feel him out'."

"You never know. He might let you."

"I thought you said he was a dick anyway."

"Yeah, but you said he apologized, and you keep looking over there and he--oh look who's looking down here and now looking quickly away. Yeah. Ask him."

"I hate you when you're right."  
_________

As it turns out, Sam's so right that Dean almost doesn't even have to ask.

"I'd like to discuss how your system can benefit our expansion," Castiel says very seriously, maybe almost nervously, as Dean's closing up for the day, surprising Dean yet again by just appearing over his shoulder. "Would you have time this evening?"

"Uh. I mean, yeah. Have you, are you... the gala?"

"Pardon?" Castiel takes a step closer. He's kind of a close talker to begin with but now Dean has to fight the urge to step back, and he's forgotten that he was packing up his laptop so he's standing there with a power cord in his hand and very dumbly stammering out who knows what while Castiel is just as serious and serene and blue-eyed as ever. Also, very close.

"The aquarium thing. The meet and greet dinner... thing." Dean says coolly, finally managing his laptop into his bag. "You guys going?"

Castiel considers this, his brow pinched and grave. Dean might have just asked him if he'd like to get a second mortgage on his house.

"I don't think so. Crowley hasn't mentioned it."

"Well, Sam bailed on me for Miss Fifty Pound Text so I've got an extra ticket."

Castiel stares.

"Free beer," Dean attempts but when this also get him nothing he adds, "We could discuss your expansion. Our sorters...."

"You're inviting me?"

"Looks like," Dean says, smiling, and wonders if Castiel has that thing where he can't read people's expressions or the inflections in their voice, or any other thing that makes humans human.

"What time?"

"About an hour. I could meet you in the lobby."

Castiel checks his watch. "Five forty?"

"Let's make it an even six."

"Six o'clock," Castiel says, like he's just carved it in stone, then nods what must be a goodbye because he doesn't say one out loud and Dean's left watching his back as he leaves.  
_______

Dean almost wolf-whistles when he steps off the elevator and finds Castiel waiting for him, head down to look at his watch. Instead he waits for Castiel to notice him approaching. "Man, I feel massively underdressed."

Castiel frowns, which somehow makes him, suit and bow tie and all, even more appealing. "The website said this was semi-formal."

"Did it? I didn't even read it. I just saw dinner and booze and my eyes glazed over." In fact Dean's wearing what he wore to the show except that he's changed out of his Winchester Sorting Inc. shirt an into a navy blue button-down. "But don't sweat it. You'll just make the rest of us look like chumps."

For the first time, Castiel's face does not look impassive or angry or brooding and pensive (a description he'd gotten from Sam). There's not a lot of change, but Dean guesses this is maybe the beginning of panic.

"I should change," Castiel says, stepping toward the elevator.

"No, no way, man. You look great. You're fine."

Castiel stops, looks down, and there's a beat before Dean realizes he's looking at Dean's hand on his chest, and another before Dean takes it away and stuffs it into his pocket. "I mean, maybe just lose the bow tie."

The moment ends less awkwardly than it could have as Castiel only nods, conceding Dean's point, and pulls the tie loose, because it isn't one of those clip-on jokes, it's the real deal, and why is that so fucking hot anyway?

There's a shuttle but the aquarium is only a few blocks so they walk downhill in the cool air and the only-just-dark Atlanta evening. There's a park and a fountain and shimmering city lights, and the wind on his face makes his eyes sting but it's not really cold (Castiel's probably too warm in his dark overcoat but Dean doubts he's the sort to complain) and it's really sort of perfect. Which Dean finds kind of annoying.

"So. The show going pretty good for you guys so far?" Dean asks, trying to keep it business like Sam suggested.

"My definition of good is not the same as Crowley's. We've had a lot of traffic at the booth, but that's nothing if the contacts don't result in orders that cover the expense."

"Yeah, you're not wrong. But it's important, right? Getting your name out there."

"Skywriting would be less expensive."

"Yeah, but not exactly targeting your market."

"Almost everyone needs paper."

"But everyone doesn't know they need your paper."

Castiel nods beside him. "That's what Crowley says. You must be a good salesman, Dean."

"Man, don't call me that. I'm not a salesman. I'm just my father's son. It was his business, I want to keep it going."

"Has he passed?" The question is quiet and grave and Dean almost feels guilty.

"No, no way. Retired. He and mom moved to south Florida two years ago. They had a house down there and they'd go on vacation. One time they didn't come back. Left me and Sammy the house in Kansas and dad said the business was ours, too."

"The family business."

"Right. Nothing really changed except that Sam came on full time after he finished school. I was already working there. Since I was a kid--" Dean stops, passing Castiel by a few steps because Castiel has stopped walking and is pulling something from his pocket and it's only when he produces a few dollar bills that Dean notices the homeless man tucked in the doorway of a building. The man doesn't really look surprised or grateful one way or the other, but mumbles a quiet 'bless you' and then Castiel is walking again. Dean has to catch up.

"Since you were a kid?" Castiel prompts Dean to finish and adds, "How young, exactly?"

"Well, uh," Dean's thoughts have scattered and it's an effort to regroup them, "...pretty young. I started out just hanging around after school, watching how the conveyors were built, bugging the mechanics."

"You didn't start in sales?"

"Hell no. I was in the fab shop by the time I graduated--barely graduated--then I moved on to service. Got to travel a lot. The customers liked me and we got a lot of repeat business. Dad said I had a knack for sales. I think he just didn't want his son being a grease monkey all his life."

"But you were happy."

"Yeah. But you know, I'm still happy. I just have cleaner hands."

Castiel laughs. It's not very loud but Dean can tell it's there. He can see him smiling from the side. He's got kind of a toothy smile and his eyes crinkle. It's really, really nice.

"So how'd you get into the paper business?"

That earns him a shrug and Castiel turns, nearly walks into him. "Nothing half so interesting, but I believe this is our turn."

The aquarium is across the street to their left, lit up and weird-shaped, like the bow of a ship. He follows Castiel belatedly and has to catch up again.

"I was a self-employed accountant, which really just means I was working out of my kitchen, but I had a respectable client base. Crowley, who'd gotten my card from a then-client, called me one April in a panic--or, panic for Crowley anyway--over his taxes. When that was sorted he asked me on full-time."

"And just like that you're part of the complete paper solution? I thought self-employment was living the dream?"

Castiel's frown is apparent in his voice. "You've obviously never had to pay for individual health insurance."

Dean laughs so loudly he frightens some pigeons and earns the attention of what seems like the entire crowd of suited business people lined up outside of the aquarium, waiting patiently-impatiently like children on a school trip. They add themselves to the end of the line and a recorded voice playing in a loop from speakers overhead claims to be their fishy friend, ready to lead them on an undersea adventure they will never forget.  
________

It turns out the free booze is limited to two drinks (beer, wine, or soda) per guest, but there's luckily a full cash bar, since Castiel drinks neither beer nor wine and Dean hates drinking alone. Dean also hates eating alone, so although he's starving and the buffet is calling to him, he follows Castiel instead, who has bypassed the coat check (seriously, isn't he hot in that thing?) and is headed for a pool of stingrays.

It's a nice place for an aquarium, or at least they've got it classed-up for the suits, because the lights are low except for the glowing displays and tanks, or the colored lights overhead in the huge main hall that make it feel more like a club than Disneyland for marine biologists. More than once he almost loses sight of Castiel, dark hair and coat in the darker shadows, then finds him seconds later inspecting a tank full of crabs or beady-eyed shrimp (seriously? who comes to these places to look at shrimp?). Castiel is a quiet observer, seems comfortable not speaking at all, and that's not always something Dean handles well, and, to be honest, Sam was kind of right. A lot of fish just creep him right the fuck out.

"Sea anemones," a woman is saying when he finds Castiel standing over a pool of brightly colored... well, shag carpeting is what it really reminds Dean of, but in the most colorful and beautiful way possible. "Aren't they the most wonderful colors?" The woman asks. She has a red carnation tucked in the button hole of her coat, which he's discovered means she's staff.

"I'll take your word for it," Castiel says, and then, more to Dean than the woman, "Color blind. Red-green."

"Oh," Dean says because how touchy are people about that sort of thing? But Castiel had said it like he'd say that his hair is dark or he has two legs. "That give you any trouble?"

Castiel shrugs. "Highlighters."

"What?"

"I hate highlighters. People think they're helpful but they're the bane of my existence."

Dean laughs, claps Castiel on the shoulder, friendly at first but maybe lingering too long and the woman tries to laugh too but she falters after a moment when neither man looks at either her or the anemones. Finally, she smiles at Dean. "You can touch them," she says, and he has to process that for a moment because his mind was so not on fish.

"Oh, uh," Dean says, looks down. The shag carpet waves at him, alien and impossible. "I really don't think I can."

Castiel smiles that eye-crinkling smile but doesn't comment and doesn't touch either and thanks the woman as he slips out from beneath Dean's hand. There's an octopus and otters sleeping and penguins sleeping because, as another staff member informs them, it's bedtime. Dean follows Castiel along, from one lighted square to another, from shadow and into another shadow, until Castiel stops suddenly and Dean walks into him, nearly spills his beer down the back of Castiel's coat.

"Cas?"

Castiel is quiet and Dean sees that he's looking ahead at the floor-to-ceiling wall of water, a two-story tank with glass so clean and clear it's like they're standing on the bottom of the sea. Everything they've seen up to now has been small tanks or shallow pools, so it's pretty impressive, but Dean can't really read the look on Castiel's face.

"You alright, Cas?"

"I'm not actually very... comfortable around water," he says at last, like water is an ex who maybe stole his car and his credit cards. But he steps forward anyway, downs the rest of his vodka tonic which he had up to then been only nursing, grimaces at the tank.

"These are our Beluga whales," a man with a carnation offers helpfully, appearing out of the shadows, "and of course the harbor seals. This tank is..." He talks about gallonage and something about swimming patterns and Dean's nodding and sort of listening but Castiel has stepped even closer to the tank, face painted pale and blue with watery light and if there's fear there Dean doesn't see it.

"This is what you call uncomfortable?" Dean asks when he joins Castiel after Mr. Carnation has turned his attention to another group.

"It's not a phobia," Castiel says, only momentarily taking his eyes from the beluga they're tracking. "I'm just extremely wary. I find it very oppressive."

"Yeah, well I don't like planes so I'm no judge. And that is a phobia."

"That must be difficult in your line of work."

"Nah, it just takes me longer to get anywhere. Drives Sam crazy. But he's afraid of clowns so guess which one of us wins."

"You drove? All the way from Kansas? That's impractical."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, you say that now, but you just meet my baby and then tell me she's impractical."

That gets Castiel's full attention, and maybe it's the lights or something because it's intense enough that Dean thinks it's possible that he's never had it before. "She?"

"Uh, yeah. My car. '67 Impala. Absolutely cherry. You'd like her."

"I see," Castiel says and really seems to, because now he's looking at Dean like he'd watched the whales, only there isn't two feet of plexiglass and a few thousand gallons of cold water between them. In fact, Castiel must have done that sneaky thing where he's suddenly much closer than he was moments before and damn, in this light, his eyes are very blue.

Dean swallows. "Cas-- uh, sorry. Do you mind if I call you that?"

"No."

"Look, Cas, I know this could get-- I mean I'm probably jumping the gun here. You know, I thought you hated me this morning, I told Sam you were a dick after the elevator thing--"

Castiel's eyes narrow but it's more like amusement.

"--anyway, I figure, you know, at worst, you get offended and we spend the next two days awkwardly not looking at each other from our booths or, at best, well..."

"What are you asking me, Dean?"

"I guess, well... do you date guys? I mean, is that a possibility here?"

Cas laughs but it's not the eye crinkling kind. It's sort of fond and also sort of sounds like Dean's being an idiot.

"Yes."

"Right. Alright. And, uh," Dean motions with his empty bottle between them. "Could there be... something?"

"I thought that's what we were trying to find out," Cas says and Dean really is an idiot.

"No, yeah, I knew that."

"No you didn't."

"Okay, but I'd hoped. I mean, I thought you hated me not eight hours ago."

"And it's impossible that another gay man could hate you."

"No," Dean scoffs, then sort of grins and, fuck it, winks. "Well, yeah."

This time the laugh is the eye crinkling kind.

"Anyway," Dean adds, "you're hard as hell to read, man."

Cas is still smiling and starts to walk away but he pointedly turns and waits for Dean to fall in step. "I thought I was being fairly clear, but I will try harder."  
_______

Dean. Likes. Sharks. Sharks are badass and misunderstood, and that's a fish he can really get behind.

"Seriously man, Shark Week. How do you not watch that? Whole week of sharks!"

"I don't watch a lot of television."

"Yeah, but it's not television, it's Shark Week."

"I'm sure I'd enjoy it, accompanied by your enthusiasm."

They're standing at the shark tank. It's massive, even bigger than the beluga tank, and set up like a small theatre with people lounging and drinking on the carpeted steps that serve as seating in the watery-blue half-dark and there are divers in with the sharks who hold up signs with logos of the sponsoring companies. Dean's on his fourth (fifth?) beer and happily full from the dinner that was good enough until he'd found the dessert table and "pies, Cas, miniature pies!" Castiel had smiled at him like he is now, barely-there but fond and aqua-tinted and open-collared and Dean remembers the tie that he'd pulled off earlier. He knows it's in one of those coat pockets. He wonders which. They'd have an audience of about fifty half-drunk salesmen but Dean really wants to kiss him.

Instead he just smiles back. "Yeah well, next Shark Week. It's a date."

The tropical fish are next and last and Dean's sorry for it. He's not sure where they go from here. He knows where he'd like to go, back to his room or Cas's room and, well. But Castiel's hands are still in his pockets and apart from the close-talking thing, which Dean has learned he does with everyone, he's not really sending out a lot of signals, even after their talk earlier.

"So what colors do you see?" Dean asks after pointing out something tropical and purple that Castiel didn't know was purple. They're approaching the jellyfish which are in an especially darkened hallway, the better to see them glow, so many impossible colors, and Dean wonders if they look half as exotic in shades of brown.

"I'm best with blues and yellows, but I can differentiate most things by tone."

"These guys?" Dean asks, tapping the glass of a tank of jellies that glow blue on the outside and a vivid pink-purple in the middle.

Castiel considers them. "They're blue and sort of a... maybe a different blue, but since you seem to want to challenge me I'm guessing that's not correct."

"I didn't mean it as a challenge, just curiosity." Dean shrugs and feels kind of like an ass so he leans in to get a closer look beyond the glass. "They are wild, aren't they? They're like..." he watches them move, glowing smoke or snot and that's a terrible mental image but it doesn't make them less surreal and beautiful, "...just swimming light. It's like they shouldn't even exist."

"Dean," Castiel says.

Dean turns to the voice, soft, to the hand on his arm, not as soft, to find that maybe the reason he'd been missing signals before was that Castiel had just been saving them up for this.

Castiel's close-talking has got nothing on his close-kissing and Dean's so surprised that he only belatedly thinks to slip a hand from his pocket and pull Castiel a little closer, only to find it's not really possible. Castiel kisses like he seems to do everything else, with great care and concentration and maybe it's the coat but he feels so warm against Dean, especially with the jelly tank cool against his back when Castiel pushes him against it.

Someone whistles, a woman, and few others laugh and catcall drunkenly, even in the half dark.

Castiel smiles that knowing little smile when he steps back a little. "Was that clear enough?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean says, laughs because he sounds a little breathless. "Fucking Swarovski."  
__________

"Five brothers?"

"And one sister."

"And you're the youngest?"

Castiel nods. "Catholic," he says.

The streetlamps throw their shadows onto the sidewalk ahead of them on the way back to their hotel. They're not holding hands or anything ridiculous like that, and there hasn't been another kiss since that one against the jelly tank, but it's a different atmosphere than the walk earlier. It's also a lot cooler, properly cold, and maybe that's an argument in favor of walking a little closer.

"By the time I came along," Castiel continues, "my parents had discovered that, provided with the basic necessities, children can practically raise themselves."

"That sounds tough."

"Not at all. I think it taught me independence early."

"You gonna tell me you ran away and joined the circus? A cult? Please let it be some weird sex cult and don't spare the details."

Castiel smiles. "I'd be happy to tell you that if you'd like to hear it. But with six older siblings I learned to fend for myself and appreciate solitude."

"And kick a little ass, am I right?"

"Spoken like an older brother."

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't have wanted to be up against five fifteen-year-old me's. I'm still apologizing to Sammy."

"Clearly you never had an older sister."

"Ouch. I'll tell Sammy he got off easy in that case."

"You're very close with him."

"Well yeah, we uh," Dean starts. He's maybe had one or two beers too many and he knows he oscillates between Good Times Dean and Sad Fucker Dean when he's had too many. "Dad traveled a lot, business, you know. Our mom... I mean, our birth mom... she died when Sam was a baby. Dad didn't remarry for a long time. Sammy and I stayed with family, sitters, and when I was old enough I looked out for him."

"Sounds like you learned independence early as well."

Dean smiles, tries not to let it look forced. "Sounds like this conversation is getting dangerously heavy. Why don't you tell me about that sex cult again."

"The initiation was quite... strenuous," Castiel says very seriously and Dean laughs, steps ahead, suddenly a little giddy. He walks backward so he can watch Castiel laugh.

"I just bet it was." He stuffs his hands into his pockets, it's that chilly, but that's it for his balance.

"Dean!"

Dean stumbles in the same instant that Castiel reaches for him and he hears the sound of tires on pavement, a short squeal of rubber on asphalt and he's falling forward. His mind's a little slow and he waits for the impact, but he only lands on a mostly soft if a little bony Castiel. There's a shout and he turns to see the back of the car that didn't hit him.

"You stepped off the curb," Castiel says, still clutching at Dean, all close and warm and serious.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I saved you."

The cold or something else (maybe saving Dean's life) has Castiel's cheeks flushed and while Dean's hands are tangled up under Castiel's coat mostly just because that's where they had ended up as he'd been flailing, now he slides them a little farther up, into the heat between Castiel's body and his coat. "Looks like."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm great."

"Well I'm having trouble breathing."

"Yeah? Me too."

"Because you're crushing me a little."

"Oh. Oh! Right." Dean scrambles up, lends Castiel a hand and then brushes them both off.

"Sorry, man."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Castiel looks so concerned. It's a thousand miles away from the guy who'd glared at him in the elevator that morning.

"My, uh, my knee feels a little funny."

Without hesitation, Catiel slides an arm around Dean's waist and offers himself to lean on.

"Thanks, man."

"You're welcome."

They cross the street like that, both of them looking both ways even though Castiel points out it's a one-way street, and halfway up the hill Dean's hand slides from Castiel's shoulder to his waist.

"You smell nice," he says somewhere between Castiel's neck and Castiel's ear.

"You don't really need help walking, do you?"

"I think if you let me go I'd definitely fall."

"That sounds like a poor come-on," Castiel says, but he's smiling.

They're both a little breathless from the uphill walk and their laughs are low and taper off to something like sighs and puffs of fog in the cold. Dean's hand wanders lower, into Castiel's coat pocket on the opposite side. "s'Cold," he says down toward Castiel's ear because Castiel is just that perfect little bit shorter, and finds satiny fabric between his fingers.

"What are you doing with my tie?"

Dean stops them at the corner where the ground levels out and the only thing that's worth pulling away from Castiel for is to slip the tie around his neck.

"I can't tie these things," he says.

"It's a bit late for that."

"I wanna see you take it off again."

"You seem very sure that's a possibility."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, well I'm an optimist."

Castiel kisses him again. Dean wonders briefly how they got to be two-to-zip but he shouldn't, not really, because for all of Castiel's mild-mannered nerdisms, Dean once again finds himself pressed against a wall, this time an abandoned cornershop. Tobacco and wine and lotto and (really?) screen printing, and Castiel kisses him hard enough and long enough and close enough that he can almost forget that they're standing on a street corner, can mostly ignore the few people who pass.

Their hotel is a minute's walk from there and in the lobby they wordlessly drift a little apart, stand against opposite walls in the elevator, smiling behind the backs of a couple of suits who are going all the way up. Dean's floor is first and they hadn't discussed this, really, so he's glad when Castiel gets off with him and they drift back together down the hallway.

"Sam?" Castiel asks as Dean pulls his key card from his wallet.

"Nah, we stopped sharing rooms a long time ago. Anyway, he's probably still out with the Paper Queen."

"I hope he isn't anything like Crowley. I'd hate to have to find her replacement tomorrow. The agency will begin to question our practices."

The key card is being stubborn because he mostly just keeps listening to and looking at Castiel and Castiel is bumping into his shoulder and smiling that little smile with the tie slung around his neck. It's no contest between that and a glowing green light that requires an instant of his Cas-compromised coordination.

"No way. Sammy's more the take-it-slow type. I get the 'I disapprove of your lifestyle' lectures off him on a regular basis. Yahtzee!" The door opens and Dean beams at Castiel, but Castiel's smile is mixed now with that pinched concentration that makes Dean think of doing especially difficult math problems.

"And what is your lifestyle, Dean?"

Dean shrugs, shouldering the door open. "I dunno... I like to have a good time. Meet different people. Like you. According to Sam that makes me some kind of emotional retard but what's he know, the kid has a business degree for crying out loud." He's laughing with the door open and Castiel isn't moving or laughing in return and this suddenly feels like it's not going so well after all.

"Like me?" Castiel blinks at him for a moment, face so open and unguarded that Dean feels like a dick even though he's not sure why.

"Well... yeah. You alright, Cas?"

After a moment Castiel nods. "Yeah, yes. I'm fine, Dean." He's looking down as he slides the tie from around his neck, and maybe that's a sign, a Go. Dean wants it to be, anyway. But Castiel doesn't step into the room behind him when Dean pushes through at last, so they're on opposite sides of the threshold when Castiel looks up again. "But, I've just realized... it's late after all. With the show tomorrow." There's a shrug in his shoulders that never quite happens and he keeps looking down and then up again. "I should say goodnight."

"Late? It's barely nine."

"I had a nice evening. Thank you."

"Cas, what--"

Castiel leans in, the third time that night. It's only a brush of lips on Dean's cheek and Dean turns his face, seeking with his mouth to make it more, but Castiel has backed away by then, nodding that silent goodbye that Dean's seen twice today, and Dean watches his back as he heads toward the elevators.

"Fuck," he says, and yeah, he's not really so stupid that he's completely lost on why he's standing there alone when he was set to spend the evening accompanied and occupied just moments before. It's not the first time his mouth and/or his "life choices," as Sam would fucking call them, have left him out in the cold. Or in an air-conditioned hotel room alone. Whatever. But he thinks it might be the first time he regrets it quite so much.

There's something sliding soft in his hand, neck-warm between his fingers. He looks down at the tie, wonders when it got there, and just what he's supposed to do with it now.

___

"What did you do?"

Sam's been smiling at everything and nothing since Dean met him in the lobby this morning, staring down the aisle at Ruby since they got to the show floor and telling Dean how great their date went, how (really, really) nice she is but how she gets a little wild after a few flirtinis and the smile that follows that bit of news sends Sam's gaze so cosmic that Dean's surprised he's noticed anything might not be on the up-and-up, with Dean or the universe in general.

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

"Does that mean you don't think you did anything wrong or does it mean you didn't..." Sam makes a gesture, "...do anything?"

"Okay first, do not ever do that again. Second, it's none of your goddamn business."

"Well he won't even look this way and you look like you did the time Dad ran over Elvira."

"Never trivialize the death of a beloved pet, Sam."

"You hated that cat."

"Yeah, well, you never know what you've got 'til someone runs it over with a pickup truck."

"Dude." And yeah, that's Sam's Sherlock-just-solved-the-case face.

"What?"

"He totally blew you off."

"Shut up."

"He's a dick anyway, Dean. Don't sweat it."

"He's not, though, Sammy. He's great. Like, genuinely, really awesome. We had a good time."

"Then what did you do?"

"Dammit, Sam." He says it a little too loudly and the ladies from the booth across look over, then try to look elsewhere. "I'm going to get a pretzel."

He's not going to get a pretzel, he's going to talk to Cas, because they're grown-ass men and that's what grown-ass men do, they handle shit, and because he does kind of feel like somebody ran over his cat. In a totally grown-ass man way. So he's going to talk to Cas. Maybe. He's pretty sure. He heads toward the pretzels anyway.

Fifteen minutes and two pretzels later, Dean approaches the Crossroad booth as casually as possible. The show is pretty quiet today, tomorrow will be a ghost town, but Ruby's talking to a group of guys that probably couldn't give two fucks about paper unless it's got 'HUSTLER' printed across the front of it. She smile-smirks at him when she sees him, never missing a beat in her pitch, and he smiles back, mostly to invite the glares of the guys surrounding her.

"Mr. Winchester," Crowley says, shakes his hand and asks after the show and how they're liking the city and some other things that Dean answers on auto-pilot because he's too busy trying not to slide his eyes over to Castiel sitting at the hightop behind Crowley, but he does anyway, of course he does, and Castiel is looking down at his phone with a considerable amount of determination.

"Actually," Dean says when Crowley finishes whatever he's been saying, which could have been a question, Dean's not really even sure. "I just came to chew Cas's-- Castiel's ear. About the sorters."

Crowley gives him an appraising look, then a knowing one, and then the smile doesn't so much slide onto his face as slither there. "Right, I see," he says in his silkiest tone. "Time for my brunch break anyway. I understand there's a sushi place somewhere upstairs. I've always been fascinated by fish. Do you like fish, Dean?"

"Uh, yeah, they're alright."

"Very romantic animals." Crowley's smirk smirks so hard it curls in on itself. "Cas," he says over Dean's shoulder with more emphasis than necessary, "I'm taking twenty. Cover for me?"

Castiel's gaze flicks up to Crowley and then even more briefly to Dean before he makes a small sound of acknowledgement down at his phone and Crowley turns on his heel to saunter out of the booth.

"That guy..." Dean says, turning to face Castiel, shaking his head once Crowley's out of earshot, but then Castiel is staring at him and he loses whatever he was going to say.

"Good morning, Dean."

It doesn't sound angry and he doesn't look angry. He doesn't look like much of anything. Except good. Really good.

"Hey, Cas. You mind?"

"Not at all."

Dean slides into the tall stool opposite Castiel and they could be any two guys there talking shop, trying to sell, looking to buy. Sam's accused him of approaching guys the same way he approaches customers, going in for the sale. But this would be a lot easier if that was the case. "I just... I thought you might, considering how we left things."

"You mean how I left things."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I did have a good time."

"Yeah, me too.... We could do it again?"

"I'm not sure that's wise." Castiel is watching the people passing by the booth, the rotating sign a few booths over, the carpet, anything but Dean.

Goddammit. Grown. Ass. Men.

"Look, Cas, full disclosure, okay?" That gets his attention, and it might have been a mistake because this is going to be harder to say with those eyes so intent on him. "I'm not really a, uh, relationshippy kind of guy, alright? I haven't-- I make a lot of friends. We have fun. Sometimes I see the same people, if we're both in the same town, right place, right time. That doesn't mean I pick up randoms, and it doesn't make me--"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. I'm a grown-ass man, and so are you, and you seem like you know what you want and I respect that, but I also would really like to do it again. Us. I mean, like we did last night... at the aquarium. Well not again at the aquarium, just--look. Come out with me again, alright? Whatever you want. Or don't want. You don't even have to kiss me."

That gets a reluctant half-smile at last and Castiel glances over Dean's shoulder because he might have said that last part a little too loud and, yeah, he hears Ruby laughing behind him.

Castiel is tapping his fingers on the table thoughtfully, rubs at a smudge and Dean just waits. When Castiel finally looks up again it's with that pinched math problem face and pursed lips and it probably shouldn't be half as attractive as it really, really is.

"Alright."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Could we go now?"

"What, now now?"

Castiel tilts his head like maybe they don't speak the same language and narrows his eyes at Dean and Dean's reminded of his dead cat for the second time that day. Castiel doesn't reply, just slides down out of his chair and pulls a satchel over his shoulder.

"Tell Crowley I've left for the day," he says to Ruby and heads out into the aisle without waiting for Dean.

"Uh, okay," Ruby says to his back.

"Same for me," Dean says to her when she gives him a decent approximation of Sam's what-the-fuck-did-you-do face. Seriously. The two are possibly meant for each other. "I mean Sam. Tell Sam."

Dean looks down the aisle and Sam, as if his ears are burning, is watching him, raises his hands in a 'what's up?' gesture. Dean shrugs, waves, then turns and trots off after Castiel who is as least looking over his shoulder to make sure he's being followed.

"Lunch?" Dean says when he catches up.

"Not fish," Castiel says.  
_________

They don't have fish. They walk back to their hotel where Dean changes out of his shiny shoes and into some jeans and Castiel says he's alright in his button-down and oxfords and Dean's not going to complain because it's true, and on the elevator back down to the lobby Dean remembers their ride in the elevator last night, tipsy and smiling and making the other businessmen uncomfortable. Now they're alone and yet still far apart and though it's not really unpleasant, Castiel looks too thoughtful in the mirrored doors.

Valet remembers him even without his ticket, of course they do, his baby's pretty unforgettable, and soon Castiel is on the seat beside him and between them is a bag of sandwiches from a deli Dean knew to be not-bad and quick and Castiel hadn't seemed to mind when he said, 'I've got an idea. Picnic?"

Castiel looks good inside the Impala. Admittedly, he looks good anywhere and the Impala flatters anyone but he seems to really like her and that has always been weirdly important to Dean. When your mom dies in a fire before you're old enough to associate her with much more than perfume and soft night gowns and pie, you're bound to substitute the loss with something, and his stepmother had come far too late for that. The Impala, however, has meant home and family for as long as he can remember.

"I think it's just up here," Dean says.

"The sign says we're on Peachtree Street North-Northwest...uh, Boulevard."

"Yeah and we're looking for Peachtree Street South." This city is a challenge even to Dean, whose powers of knowing where the fuck he is are legendary. It's a maze built by a sadist, and almost every street is named some variation of 'Peachtree'.

Castiel just spreads his hands in the defeated no-help gesture of someone who earlier admitted to being utterly without navigational skills, but he smiles when Dean asks, "Is that the same homeless dude we passed a minute ago?"

"I'm not sure. Are you implying that we might be going in circles?"

"No, totally not. Yeah, it's possible--no, wait. Here we go."

Dean turns the Impala (very carefully) into a rutted-out dirt parking lot, eyeing the trees to make sure none are pecan trees, because the bitches are everywhere, and God bless pecan pie but he's not letting them ding up his car.

"It's a cemetery," Castiel says when they climb out.

"That okay?"

Castiel nods and Dean grabs their lunch and together they cross the street, passing parents with a kid in a stroller who have the same idea, through the archway and onto brick-lined walks. It's a big place and it's old and quiet for being in the middle of the city and next to a train yard. Castiel lets Dean lead them but wanders off of the walk now and then to inspect a mausoleum, a giant crucifix twice his height, a statue of an angel with which he holds a protracted staring contest.

They find a bench in the northeast corner that overlooks a park and people walking dogs across the backdrop of disused industrial buildings. Castiel sits on the bench, Dean sits on the ground in front of it. After a moment, Castiel joins him.

"Why a cemetery?" Castiel asks around turkey on whole wheat.

Dean makes a point to swallow before saying, "Too morbid?"

"Maybe."

Dean shrugs and their shoulders brush, mostly because Dean's leaning in. "I've always liked them."

"Always?"

"Mostly always."

"Which one?"

'It's kind of mine and Sam's thing. Our dad used to spend a lot of time visiting my mom and he'd take us with him. It really freaked Sammy out, y'know? Me too at first, so I'd start goofing off and we'd play games. Tag or--"

"Hide-and-seek."

"--yeah, and find the oldest grave. Stuff like that. Then we got older and we went on our own. Sam doesn't really go for hide-and-seek anymore, the killjoy."

"Have you been here before?"

"Yeah. Not for years, though."

"Where's the oldest grave?"

"Man, I don't know. If we ever found it I've forgotten. I think it would take days."

"And we only have the afternoon."

There's something final about that, like Castiel means more than just finding old graves and Dean guesses he does, but Castiel is only eating his sandwich and watching a couple of dogs drag their owners across the rolling swells of green (or is it brown for him?) grass when Dean looks over at him. His jaw is stubble-shadowed even though it's still early in the day. He must have shaved before dinner last night. Dean remembers how smooth that cheek had been, like he remembers this view close-up, and the little wrinkles in the corners of Castiel's eyes when he smiles or squints, which he seems to do in sunlight or indoors. He's doing it now and they suit him. Dean likes them. He hasn't asked but he thinks Castiel might be a few years older than him.

"What about you?" Dean says. "You didn't look so keen on the idea of stepping into a boneyard when we got here. Something up with that?"

Castiel shrugs, folds his sandwich paper neatly over his knee. "I've never lost anyone close to me. A couple of aunts and uncles, grandparents I'd only met twice. No one of consequence. Not to death anyway."

"So?"

"So I have little frame of reference for death. Or grief. It makes me uncomfortable."

"You had a goldfish or something right?"

"My brother Gabriel had one once. He ate it on a dare."

"Yikes."

"I have a dog."

"Yeah?"

"He's still alive."

"Don't sound so disappointed. Hey... you've got a lash."

Dean brushes the dark lash from Castiel's cheek with his thumb, presents it for proof that he wasn't just trying to be smooth but the wind blows it away before Castiel sees it so that Dean has to laugh at himself.

"I swear it was there, man, you know, I wouldn't try..." He trails off because Castiel isn't even watching his fingers where a lost lash should be, he's just staring at Dean up close and Dean wants to stop smiling, he really does. "You remember when I said that thing about not having to kiss me, Cas?"

Castiel looks away then and Dean thinks he's blown it.

"Full disclosure, Dean?"

"Uh, yeah, of course."

"I am a... relationshippy guy." Dean tries to laugh at the use of his own term. It's not really funny. "My last was nearly five years and that was less than a year ago. We bought a condo together, and an Alsatian. I still have the apartment and, as I've said, the dog. I don't meet a lot of people. I don't make a lot of friends. I have not frequently been on the receiving end of the 'I disapprove of your lifestyle' speech--"

"Cas--"

"That said," and this is followed by an agonizingly long pause in which Castiel watches the ground and then the sky, and then sighs deeply, sadly, before finally meeting Dean's gaze again. "I'd really like to spend the night with you tonight."  
______

It is hours, not minutes, later when Dean walks through the door of his hotel room and this time Castiel follows him. Hours because there had been a moment for Dean to process, to say, "Yeah? I'd like that," (then to kick himself for saying something so lame because of course he would) and to kiss Castiel long enough that they ended up sprawled out on the grass and for Castiel to say up to him, "you taste like chicken salad," and time enough still for Dean to laugh until Castiel pulled him back down and rolled him over and for a springer spaniel to break them up with a bark and a growl and a disapproving looking owner.

There had been time for the long way through the cemetery back to the car and a halfhearted search for a far-distant relative Sam had said was buried there when he texted to check on Dean and Dean told him where they were, for more kissing beneath a shady maple tree when they found nothing, for a drive back more wandering than lost, and, finally, for a quick stop at a package store.

"Is that from me?" Castiel asks in the room as he runs his hand down Dean's bare shoulder to his arm, to a place where his fingers match the dull pinch of bruising and Dean doesn't have to take his lips from Castiel's throat to know what he's found, but he does it enough to speak.

"Yeah.You've got one hell of a grip."

"I'm sorry."

"No way, you saved me, like you said. Anyway, I thought it was pretty hot when I saw it."

Castiel laughs, warm breath and gin when Dean finds his mouth again to kiss another laugh out of him, kiss until he stops laughing, and Dean just breathes him in, the smell of him, the taste of him, the simple and inexplicable existence of him.

Dean figured Castiel would be kind of pushy about sex once he got past the casual part of it, and he thinks he's being proved right when Castiel backs him up a little until Dean feels the bed at the back of his knees and they lay across it. But Castiel isn't any more aggressive than Dean needs him to be, to let Dean know what he likes (he likes Dean's cock-- a lot), what he likes less (he's ticklish around his sides and will shy away from Dean's hands if they touch too softly there) and though he presses Dean against the sheets bodily, holds Dean's hips down as he demonstrates just how much he likes Dean's cock, he doesn't resist being rolled onto his back for Dean to press even harder, to hold hips a little bony and fucking beautiful, and to do his best to double-return the favor. It's the kind of one-upmanship Dean's best at.

"You said you'd never lost anyone," Dean begins some time later and realizes belatedly that maybe this is a kind of heavy for pillow talk, especially when it's still so early. In a little while they'll redress and go to dinner and smirk across the table at each other and Dean will not flirt with the waiter (he always flirts with the waiter) and they'll order dessert to-go and eat it sitting crosslegged over tangled sheets while watching the last twenty minutes of Bladerunner which Castiel has never seen and will be endlessly confused by and which Dean will try to explain but get lost instead in the furrows of Castiel's brows and the soft press of his lips and even later he'll learn the feel of Castiel's breath fast and hot on the back of his neck but for now they're wrapped up in each other, in an almost too-cold, half dark hotel room and a city-quiet autumn evening.

"In the cemetery..." Dean says, picking up his thought because, heavy or not, he's started it, "you said you'd never lost anyone important to you, not because of death... but maybe other reasons."

Castiel is quiet for a moment, legs restless against the sheets.

"Sorry, man, you dont--"

"It's okay, Dean." His voice seems pitched lower, rougher than usual, and Dean can't tell if it's from the sex or something else. He could see Castiel's face if he turned to look, but he doesn't. "Talking about Balthazar has long since ceased to cause me discomfort. Mostly."

"Is that Mr. Five Years and an Alsatian?"

"Yes. I thought everything was fine. I thought it was good that he was getting out more. He was a writer and, cliche as it seems, prone to depression. But as he became more social it became apparent that he..."

"Had become more social?"

"He said I was boring. He also said, as you similarly observed, that I was hard to read and that he was tired of trying. Then he sold our furniture and his car and moved to Mauritius. Or someplace with thatched roofs and a lot of sunshine anyway."

Dean shifts closer. He doesn't realize he's doing it until it's done. "Sounds like a dick."

"I didn't think so for the first four years or so, but by the end, yes. Decidedly a dick."

"Years, man.... I mean that's practically marriage."

"It had been discussed."

"I don't even understand how that works."

"Do you not?"

"Uh, no. Should I?"

There's another long silence and restless legs and then everything is still again and Castiel doesn't sound accusing or judgemental or anything else; he doesn't sound like anything at all when he says, "No. Of course not. Are you hungry?"  
__________

That night, maybe two a.m., Dean wakes for no reason he can figure and doesn't fall asleep again for a while. Beside him, Castiel breathes deeply and evenly. Dean can't see his face but his back is a pale shape in the dark. He watches the ceiling instead.

Dean hates not being able to sleep, maybe especially because it doesn't happen often. He's always been able to sleep anywhere. When they were kids, Sam was the one who had trouble dropping off and Dean would tell him not to think so hard about it, just to let it happen. So he tries not to think but it's a sure way to doing nothing but. There's a noise in the street, mechanical, industrial, beeping. Garbage collection truck. The A.C. kicks on too-loud. Someone in a room above or next door flushes a toilet.

He rolls onto his side, closer to Castiel, presses his forehead against the space between Castiel's shoulder blades and prepares to apologize when Castiel's even breathing stutters, quiets, but moments later the rhythm returns and Dean imagines a black pillow on a black bed with black sheets in a black room in a black house on a black-dark street, out into the pitch of space and beyond, where only God and Carl Sagan know what's up.  
__________

In the morning there's just the light from the barely-open bathroom door and at first it hurts his eyes but there's a mirror on the wall across from the bathroom and he can see Castiel standing there, just half of a naked body, back and shoulder and ass and it's worth waking up for. There's the sound of water running and Castiel bending over the sink, to wash his face maybe, before the light blinks out to darkness. He hears feet shuffling over carpet and then a table lamp switches on behind him and he rolls over to watch Castiel dress.

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel says without looking up from his pants.

"Very," Dean sleep-slurs. The clock reads 6:05 and he'd complain but the view is nice. "Breakfast?"

Castiel frowns at buttons. "There's probably not time."

"Whaddya mean? The show doesn't start 'til ten. It's gonna be a ghost town anyway."

Castiel doesn't answer, finishes buttoning his shirt, pats his pockets for a wallet, finds his room key and his coat.

"Uh. Okay," Dean says when the silence lengthens. He sits up, swings his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet into his lap because it's morning and it had really been a nice view and Castiel doesn't really seem up for being coaxed back into bed. But the thing in his voice that even he didn't like hearing must have gotten through because Castiel sits down next to him, starts to put on yesterday's socks, then stuffs them in his pocket instead before slipping his shoes onto bare feet.

"I need to shower and shave and..." he trails off as if the rest is implied and at least now he's looking at Dean.

Maybe being a relationshippy guy makes you not really give a fuck about morning breath, or maybe Castiel just wouldn't give a fuck anyway, but Dean won't complain either way because it's a really nice kiss, gentler than any of last night's. He wouldn't even mind that it doesn't lead to anything else, except that when it's over Castiel stands and nods his usual silent goodbye and slips out the door, coat-in-hand, shirt untucked, hair wrecked, sockless in oxfords.

Dean's got a few more hours before he has to meet Sam in the lobby, and though he does lie back down he doesn't sleep.  
__________

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Who the fuck do you think, dude?"

"Castiel?"

"Yeah. He was up way before me but it's almost lunch.... And do not ask what I did, okay?"

"Okay.... Why don't you call him?"

"Yeah, about that--"

"You don't have his number?"

"It never came up."

"I can get a card from Ruby. Or, hell, just ask Crowley where he is."

Sam heads down the aisle just as someone in a suit too nice to be anything but annoying approaches Dean about managing their freight, because the show really is a ghost town so people have started wandering around to other companies' booths, suitcasing the aisles like cockroaches. Dean takes his card anyway.

"Cas is gone," Sam says when he returns a while later with lunch. "He had an early flight. He didn't tell you?"

"What? No."

"Well, here's his card." Sam passes it over and Dean could really do without the sad-puppy-feels-bad-for-you face that accompanies it. "It doesn't have his cell on it, though. Sorry. I know you were really into him."

"Yeah, well I guess the feeling wasn't exactly mutual."

That earns him Bitchface Supreme but Sam seems to know better and all but literally bites his tongue. Instead, he tears open a mustard packet.

"Yeah, you clam it, Dr. Phil. 'Cause the last thing I need is your regurgitated college course psychocrap about my fear of commitment."

Sam's face goes from sour lemons to genuinely confused in record time. "I never said you had a fear of commitment."

"Please, Sam. A hundred times if once."

"No, Dean. Intimacy issues, sure-- I know, I'll put a nickel in the swear jar, I'm just saying, you've got commitment oozing out of your ass."

"Excuse me?"

"Think about it, Dean," Sam's abandoned his mustard and his shoulders are squared off, hands grasping at something invisible, like he's preparing to explain a complex theory of time and space to a group of kindergartners. "You inherited a family business where you've worked since you were, what, fifteen? You're still living in the same city, state, and man, even the same house as when we were kids. You've driven the same car for, I dunno, almost twenty years. You've had the same jacket since I can remember and you're still looking after me-- unnecessarily at this point-- just like you've done... well, forever, really."

"None of that's the same, Sam."

"Of course it is. Just that none of it involves waking up with the same person every morning. I mean, even I left, went to school for a few years. I got this coat a few weeks ago.... My car's a 2010."

"Plastic piece of crap."

"Truth is, Dean," and this is said with a self-satisfied smirk like he's about to reveal the punchline to the funniest joke he knows, "you're the most committed guy I know."

"Yeah, well," and fuck, maybe Sam's smirk is justified. "Shut up and eat your giant pretzel."  
_________

Ruby does the tradeshow gig because she's putting herself through school. She wants to be a pediatrician. Imagine that. But Sam doesn't seem too broken up about leaving her behind at the cafe where they'd met her for breakfast their last morning in town, even though Sam smiles idiotically whenever she's in shouting distance and Dean knows they've already made plans for him to fly out later than month. He knows why it annoys him that Sam's so okay with leaving her behind.

Sam had flown in for the show but he's riding back with Dean and it's good, it's like old times, when dad, who only flew when he had to, would drag them along for weekend trips. It's good, too, because the road is one place where Dean can get lost. Not literally, but mentally. Music and asphalt and the neverending task of keeping an eye out for cops and troopers and, of course, the most promising looking roadside dives. It's good. He can do this and not think about Cas.

"Dude," Sam says over the Allman Brothers, "you just passed the exit for Angel's. We always stop there."

Maybe he can't do this and not think about Cas.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm good. Just didn't feel like a burger."

"Since when?"

"Since shut your face."

I-24 has never flown by so quickly. Atlanta is long in their rearview and they hit Murfreesboro before he realizes that he's been thinking how it's all down to Nashville. From there they head west to home, or eight hours dead north to Chicago and Crossroad Industries, and that's about the dumbest idea he's ever had but it keeps rolling through his mind like a slow train anyway.

They head west, of course they do. They stop for the night in Illinois, south of St. Louis and it doesn't really help. Five, six hours tops, he thinks, calculating time and distance without really meaning to.

The next afternoon, Sunday, he's standing in their driveway in Lawrence, pulling his and Sam's bags out of the trunk of the Impala while Sam's still sitting in the passenger seat, texting Ruby. Again. It's in him to be petty and tell Sam to fucking help or else, but as much as it surprises him, he understands.

Nine-and-a-half hours, he thinks.  
_________

He finds the tie in the pocket of a pair of dirty trousers that night while sorting out his laundry. It's all creased from being crammed in there for several days and several states and it reminds him of the last time he'd seen Castiel, disheveled and undone too early in the morning. It makes him smile, then frown, then he folds it over and stuffs it into the pocket of the jeans he's wearing.

That night he dreams of eating miniature pecan pies in cemeteries in outer space.  
_________

"Mornin', Sammy."

"Morning. Where are you going?"

"Got a meeting in Chicago."

"Since when? You haven't even been into the office."

"Alright, mom, lay off. Have reception forward my calls. I'll take them on the road."

"Isn't Chicago where--"

"Shut up, Sam."  
_________

The door to Castiel's apartment is a pretty regular looking door. Funny, then, that Dean seems to have so much trouble knocking on it.

He's been standing here for a few minutes now, hoping there's no cameras in the hallway because he's going to get arrested any minute now if there are.

Grown. Ass. Man., he thinks, and raises his hand to knock, but a muffled voice beyond it stops him before he can, and then the door opens and someone steps out. Someone not Cas. It's a big guy and he's good looking in an I-can-bench-press-you-and-your-entire-family way, and he frowns when he sees Dean, but steps past him anyway, out into the hall and toward the elevators.

"Dean?"

Dean had been too busy watching The Rock to notice the man still standing in the doorway.

"Cas, hi, um. This was-- this is probably a really bad.... God, this was stupid."

"Would you like to come in?"

Castiel opens the door enough to let Dean through and fuck but he looks good in jeans and a t-shirt and bare feet, but that just fuels Dean's suspicion that he's just minutes too late from interrupting something, so he just stands there in the doorway like the idiot that he is.

"I really should have--I did try to call-- I mean, your office. I even stopped by, but they said you were out and I didn't have your cell and man, they are nazis about giving out personal numbers, but then I called back and it was like nothing to get your address. I just said I was with Fedex. You really need to, um, talk to them about that."

"Dean--" A ringtone interrupts him. "Please come in, Dean. I should get this."

Castiel disappears past the entrance hall and Dean shuts the door behind him. The apartment opens up into a large sitting room and a lot (a lot) of bookshelves, with dining and kitchen beyond, and there's an almost overwhelming smell of leather. Castiel is standing in the middle of it, nodding mutely to whoever is on the phone, even though they can't see him.

"Yes, he's here now. No, he just walked in."

"What the fuck?" Dean mouths silently.

"Sam," Cas says out loud. "He says hello."

"How the hell did he get your number?"

Castiel listens quietly to the voice on the line. Apparently Sam could hear that one. "The internet, dude," Cas repeats faithfully.

"I'm gonna break his neck."

"He says you're welcome."

"Yeah, for what?"

"He-- I'm not telling him that. You're being very presumptuous.... No, it's alright."

"Would you just hang up with him already!"

"I should go, Sam. You, too."

"What was that about?" Dean asks when Castiel sets his phone aside and walks over to join Dean standing behind the sofa.

"He called me yesterday and told me to expect you. We thought you'd be here last night."

"I was. In town, anyway. I stopped by your work but you weren't there and-- I guess I already said all of that."

Castiel smiles, small and thoughtful with his arms crossed and his hair's a mess in the best way and there's a tiny hole in the shoulder of his Flaming Lips t-shirt and he could stand to shave.

He looks pretty amazing.

"I'm taking a few days," Cas says. "I had some furniture delivered."

Dean turns to really take in the room and yeah, it's all new and that's why the smell of leather is so strong. It's dark brown and buttery-soft beneath his fingers and... wait.

"So was that what Andre the Giant was about?"

Cas tilts his head. "You mean Mr. Pinkman?"

"The big guy? His name's Pinkman?"

"Yes, he and another gentleman were just finishing up." Cas's brows furrow more, if possible. "Had you supposed he was here for another reason?"

"No, no, not at-- you know, I wouldn't have figured you for a leather guy."

"Me neither," Castiel says and his face softens. "But I was drawn to it as soon as I saw it. I thought it would be difficult to choose, after so long without any."

"You mean since..." Dean can't remember his name, "...the Dick? You haven't had furniture for a year?"

Castiel shrugs. "Not quite a year. But I might have had a harder time moving on than I implied. And it's funny how little you need a sofa when there's no one else to sit on it with you."

There's a lot in that statement that should make Dean want to head for the door, but it has the opposite effect.

"Look, Cas," he says and leans against the sofa, then stands again because what kind of asshole leans on another man's brand new furniture? "I'm not really sure how to-- I'm not even sure if you actually want me here.... Do you?"

Castiel nods and that's a fucking relief.

"Okay. Well I've been trying to figure out how to, you know, approach this, and the best I've come up with is bad Foreigner lyrics, and I guess I could have done some kid of John Cusack thing but, Cas..." he reaches out. Something huge forms in his throat as he takes Castiel's hand, just cold fingers until Cas takes his as well. "I'd just like to be with you. However that works or whatever it means." He swallows. "Okay?"

There's a whining noise somewhere. It interrupts the agonizing quiet but Castiel ignores it so Dean does too.

"Okay," Castiel says.

"Okay?"

"Yes."

"That's it? That's all I had to say? I mean, I'm not complaining, but, man, I really got myself pretty worked up over this."

Castiel is smiling that secret smile and tugging just a little on Dean's hand. "Sam might have said a little more than just that I should expect you."

"Kid's a nosey brat," Dean says against Castiel's lips and then forgets that the world exists until he hears that whine again.

"Sorry." Castiel pulls away but doesn't let go of Dean's hand until he has to. He heads toward the sound. "That's Misha."

"Misha?"

The dog appears from down the hall where he must have been shut in a bedroom to keep him from the delivery guys, but he doesn't offer to eat Dean or even growl at him, just sniffs him up one leg and down the other.

"That's a German Shepherd," Dean says, petting Misha's head and getting a grateful lick to the palm for it.

"What were you expecting?"

"I thought an Alsatian was one of those little purse dogs."

Castiel makes a face that makes Dean laugh and want to quote Foreigner even more than before.  
_______

"So... what now?" Dean asks later when they're sitting on Castiel's new sofa, Misha too, his head on Dean's lap, and Cas is on the other side of him, shoulder and hip right up against his own and Dean kind of can't stop smiling.

"I mean, you're the relationship expert. What happens after this? Lots of miss-you texts and long-distance phone sex? I'll have to get over flying. I thought about doing some rom-com thing last Thursday and catch the next flight after yours but, you know, one life changing decision at a time."

Castiel laughs at him and their hands brush by each other's as they scratch Misha's ears.

"In my... expert opinion," Castiel says at last, "I was thinking we should start simple. Maybe dinner. A movie. Sex. In whichever order you prefer."

Dean grins back, leans in, closer to Cas, closer to something he never thought he was capable of having, and to the ever more certain conclusion that Foreigner really knew their shit.

**Author's Note:**

>  _ **[I Want to Know What Love Is](http://dai.ly/cCjv0Y)**_ , Foreigner


End file.
